Red Ghost
by LAHull
Summary: Patrick Jane and a mysterious woman are held hostage while investigating the murder of a tabloid newpaper publisher. Comedy/mystery with very little shipping. Please leave feedback! It helps make me a better writer!
1. Chapter 1

It was 10:30 on a Thursday night and the house was dark. Too early for a playboy like Benson Bowman to be sleeping, Patrick Jane mused form the driver's seat of his Citroen parked at the curb in the middle of a quiet suburban street in Sacramento. 2918 Sycamore was a tidy, 1940's style bungalow painted two complimentary shades of blue. It had a white picket fence, and a front porch bordered by waist-high azaleas in full bloom. Not a typical bachelor's pad. The neighborhood was far too white-bread for the kind of partying Benson Bowman was notorious for. The house had no garage and the brick-paved driveway was empty. A late model VW was parked at the curb between Bowman's and his neighbor to the left. It could have been for either house.

Jane got out of his car, locked it and approached the bungalow. No dog, no cat, no children's toys in the yard as there were in many of the neighboring yards. It was pretty generic, actually. The person who lived here complied with the homeowner's association by having a lawn-maintenance service; didn't get his own hands dirty. That sounded like Bowman, alright. But the lack of personality indicated someone who was trying not to be noticed. The front porch was adorned with white whicker furniture with flowered cushions and a matching two-person swing that no one ever used. _Set decoration_, thought Patrick. He reached out to rap on the door, then changed his mind and tried the knob. It turned. He called out, "Hello?" and was greeted by silence. Patrick swung the door open and stepped inside.


	2. Chapter 2

The front door opened into the living room of the house. Enough street light came through the partially shuttered windows to one wall was lined with a huge flat panel TV and expensive audio and video equipment. The rest of the furniture was arranged for best viewing of the TV and a lovely Craftman's style fireplace and mantle stood forlornly neglected along the opposite wall.

Houses, particularly older houses are living things. They breathe and creak and sigh, but the creak Patrick heard was not from the house. Someone was home. To the left was an open door. A faint blue glowed within. Deniability was gone, he was already inside the house, so Patrick decided rely on bravado instead. "Hello?" he said again and walked toward the open door. It was a masculinely appointed study with oversized desk and leather furniture. The glow was coming from a computer screen on the desk. Patrick stepped inside, sensed rather than felt an oncoming breeze and ducked just as something crashed into the wall above his head.

His night-vision adjustment heightened by adrenalin, Jane looked up to see an angry auburn-haired woman trying to pull a golf club out of a hole in the plaster wall. "Nice swing, but you have a little trouble with your follow-through," he told her.

The woman was wearing slacks, a buttoned down silk blouse, medium height heels and conservative makeup. She was in her mid-thirties and had no apparent affinity for golf or home demolition. Finally, she wrenched the head of the club out of the wall, throwing plaster across the room. She drew back and said, "Not with my next shot I won't."

Jane backed away from her and put his hands up, trying to look benign and composed. "That won't be necessary – or wise. I'm with the police. Can I show you my ID?"

The woman nodded, but kept the golf club pulled behind her shoulder, ready to let it fly.

Jane reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out his ID. Extending it toward her, he said, "My name is Patrick Jane. I'm with the C.B.I."

"What are you doing coming in here unannounced?" the woman demanded.

Jane said, "What are _you_ doing in here with the lights off?"

"I have a key," the woman said. "How did you get in?"

"The door wasn't locked," Jane told her.

"Don't you have to have a warrant or something?" she asked.

Jane declined to answer that. "I'm just here to talk to Benson Bowman."

"He's not home," she said.

Trying on one of his signature, disarming smiles, Jane said, "You must be Mr. Bowman's personal assistant."

Not ready to disarm, the woman said, "What makes you think that?"

"You're too well dressed to be a maid," Jane smiled and put his hands in his pockets, ignoring the weapon still held at the ready. "Benson Bowman is far too self important to do his own paperwork. You're in his office," Jane began to move about the room, staying just out of range. He looked at the computer screen, "making adjustments to Benson's calendar – and you've brought his shirts back from the cleaners." Jane picked up a plastic bag of dry cleaning that had been draped over the desk chair. He put the cleaning back down, leaned against the desk and smiled again. "You're Benson Bowman's personal assistant. And lover."

The woman lowered the club, but maintained her grip. "Where do you get _that_ idea?" she scoffed.

"You know your way around in the dark," Jane said simply.

Annoyed, the woman said, "What are you doing here?"

"I told you. I want to talk to Benson Bowman. I'm investigating the murder of Mr. Bowman's employer, Edward Hurst."

"A lot of people work for 'The Truthfinder,'" she said.

"Gotta start somewhere," Jane shrugged. "Do you know where Mr. Bowman is?"

"No. And he didn't have anything to do with killing Mr. Hurst."

Jane looked her in the eye. "Did you?" he asked.

"I'm not the violent type," she said.

Jane smiled and crossed his arms. "You tried to brain me just a minute ago," he pointed out.

"You snuck up on me," she countered.

"Do you try to kill everyone who sneaks up on you, Miss…"

"Donovan. Stephanie Donovan," she said. "And yes."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Donovan," Jane said. "You're going to have to work on your technique…"

The two of them were startled by the sound of breaking glass coming from the back of the house.

"That can't be good," Patrick observed.

Stephanie's eyes grew larger and she once again raised the golf club. "Now what?" she said.

"First of all," Jane whispered, "Put that down." He peeked around the door jamb with Stephanie right behind him. The kitchen door was visible down the hallway. A hand reached in through a broken window pane and opened the lock on the door. A man entered and closed the door behind him. Jane and Stephanie ducked back into the study. "Do you know him?" he asked her.

"Anyone I know would use the front door," she said.

The stranger moved through the house, looking first in the rooms in the back. The front door was in clear view of the hallway and would be a risky move. Patrick turned to the window of the study. "Does this open?" he asked.

"Why?"

"So we can go out it," he said, trying to open the window.

Stephanie looked incredulous. "You're a cop! He's breaking in…Why would we run? Arrest him!"

"Well…" said Jane, still fighting the window.

"Where's your gun?" Stephanie asked.

"I don't carry a gun," he told her. "Damn, it's painted over!" Patrick looked around the room for something to pry the window open with.

"What kind of cop doesn't carry a gun?"

"I'm not a cop. I'm a consultant."

"What does that mean?"

"Doesn't matter," Patrick said dismissively. "I have a plan to get us out of here." He briefly considered using one of the other golf clubs as a weapon. Only effective with the element of surprise which they did have, but if the man had a gun…

"A plan?" said Stephanie.

Jane turned on his most sincere look and stared into her eyes. "Do you trust me?" He asked her.

"No," she said.

"Doesn't matter," he replied. "Just follow my lead." _Any second a brilliant plan will arise_, he thought.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway panicked Stephanie into action. She began to unbutton her blouse.

Jane looked at her, astounded, "What are you doing?"

Stephanie finished unbuttoning her blouse, revealing a nicely filled out lace bra. "Giving us an excuse to in my boss's office in the middle of the night," she said. "Follow _my_ lead…" With that, Stephanie launched herself onto Patrick in a tight embrace and kissed him full on the lips. Using the elements of surprise and gravity, and a little tai-kwon do she had picked in self-defense class, she fell backwards onto the couch, pulling Patrick down on top of her.


	3. Chapter 3

An instant after Stephanie and Jane hit the couch, the intruder appeared in the doorway. He swept the room with his flashlight and when he illuminated the couch he was shocked and embarrassed to have interrupted such an intimate moment. "Sorry," he mumbled, and turned to give them privacy. Then he remembered why he was there and pulled out his gun. "Stop that," he ordered. "Get up."

Jane tried to comply but Stephanie had both arms and one leg wrapped around him in an iron grip.

"Hey!" said Stephanie with great indignation.

"I said, stop it!" said the gunman. He was pointing his gun in one hand and his flashlight with the other.

"Get out!" Stephanie commanded. She blocked the glaring light with one hand, giving Jane a chance to extricate himself from her grasp. He stood slowly, with his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, stalling for time to think.

The gunman gawked at Stephanie's open blouse. She clutched it closed and stared at him in anger. He looked slightly disappointed, then said, "You stand up too." With some difficulty and no help from Jane, Stephanie managed to hold her blouse closed and get to her feet.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Why are you here?" the gunman asked in turn.

"Why are _you_ here?" demanded Stephanie.

"There wasn't supposed to be a girl," said the gunman.

"There wasn't supposed to be two men," countered Stephanie.

Finally able to form a coherent thought, Jane said, "Let's take it easy and talk this through."

"Who is the girl?" the gunman asked him. "There wasn't supposed to be a girl here."

"Then let her go," said Jane, squinting into the light. "Then we'll talk about this, just you and me."

"Shut up and let me think," said the gunman.

Stephanie said, "Do you want me to open the safe? I can open the safe. There's not a lot of money in there but I'll open it."

"Her purse in on the desk there," offered Jane. "Wallet, credit cards… that watch she's wearing is pretty nice."

"Shut up!" said the gunman. He took a step closer to Jane and Stephanie. He was blocking the door and they had no where to go.

Jane maneuvered in front of Stephanie and said, "Think about what you're doing. No one has to get hurt here…" Partially blinded by the flashlight, Jane didn't see the man swing the gun toward his head until it was too late. Then he saw nothing at all.

Stephanie was nearly knocked off balance when Jane dropped to the floor at her feet. She opened her mouth to scream but the gunman was instantly on top of her shoving a bitter-sweet tasting rag in her face. The world became woozy and faded out of existence.

_* * * *_

Jane awoke with a mother of a headache and the feeling that he had been tossed down a flight of stairs. Half a flight, it turned out. He was in an unfinished half-basement with a concrete floor and walls and a couple of dusty florescent light fixtures suspended from the wooden rafters of the ceiling. Stephanie seemed to have been treated more gently – she was laid out on a blanket with a balled-up sweat suit under her head. She was breathing, snoring lightly, in fact. Why did women always deny it when they snore?

Patrick touched the side of his head and his finger tips came back bloody. It was sticky, so that meant it had stopped bleeding. He felt for his cell phone but it was missing. On to plan B then. He looked around the room. This basement was set up as a laundry room, with a washer and dryer, an ironing board, some boxes of holiday decorations. Two six-by 24 inch vent windows were on each side, but they were useless as a mode of escape. There was only one way in or out – a set of wooden stairs leading up to what was most likely the kitchen. A sliver of light came through under the door.

He got gingerly got to his feet and, fighting dizziness and nausea climbed the stairs. A few steps up allowed him a view through the gap under the door. No one was in the kitchen, but a chair had been braced against the door. On to plan C then. Plan B or C wouldn't have been necessary if Miss. "Follow my Lead" hadn't messed up plan A, Patrick thought. He went back down the stairs and eased himself to the floor a few feet away from her. Stephanie stirred but did not wake up. _Who am I kidding?_ he told himself. _I didn't have a plan A._

* * * *


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Stephanie was aware of was the smell of laundry detergent. "What? Where?" she said.

"Easy now, you're going to have a headache."

The second thing Stephanie was aware of was a terrible headache. "Oh my God, my head hurts," she said.

"It's the ether. You'll probably feel a bit nauseas too."

Stephanie tried to sit up. "Ooof," she said as a wave of nausea hit her.

"Slow down. It will pass."

Stephanie squinted around at her surroundings. She was in the basement at Benson's house. With the man who claimed he was with the police.

"Hi," he said.

She pulled herself into a sitting position, letting the memory of what happened earlier come back. "Is the guy still up there?" she asked.

"If he is he's being pretty quiet," Jane said. "He's got the door locked and barricaded so we aren't going anywhere."

"Did he say what he wants?"

"I didn't get the chance to ask. He knocked me out, remember? I just came around before you did."

"Yeah," Stephanie said. "How's your head?"

Patrick turned his head so she could see the patch of blood.

"Ouch," Stephanie said. "He's going to kill us, isn't he?"

"If he wanted us dead he'd have killed us already. He wants us alive."

"For what?"

"He's not here to rob the place or he would have taken you up on your offer to open the safe. You didn't recognize each other and he wasn't expecting to find a girl here, but he was expecting to find a man. He must be after your boss, Bowman. I'm just a lucky bystander who got in the way." Patrick smiled. "So that brings us to the million dollar question: Who has a beef with your boss?"

Stephanie rolled her eyes. "Pretty much anyone who's ever met him," she replied. She stood up, determined to find a way out. She walked to the nearest wall to check out the vent window.

"You'll never make it through there," Jane said.

"Thanks," Stephanie told him. He was right, but he didn't have to sound so sure of it. She tried to jam it open wider.

"Benson Bowman is a real piece of work," Jane said. "Star reporter for the Truthfinder. Best of the worst of the supermarket tabloids. That's as wide as it opens….

"I know," Stephanie said, still fiddling with the window. "We could break it…"

"You still wouldn't fit. And then we'd have to deal with the broken glass. Bowman tries to pull off this 'Danger Man' attitude, going where no reporter dares, but he's really all flash and no substance."

"I can break a window and manage to not cut myself," Stephanie said.

"But…"

"I _know_," she interrupted, annoyed. "I still wouldn't fit."

Jane continued, "He gets himself invited to parties then stabs everyone in the back with his exposés about who's doing what with who. He writes features about 'mysteries' like spontaneous combustion and astral projection…"

Stephanie gave up on the window and went to search for a weapon among the storage boxes. "Do you have a point?" she asked.

"Benson Bowman is hack. His articles are literary diarrhea."

"He's successful."

"That doesn't make him talented."

Stephanie reached into a box and pulled out one of a pair of heavy brass candle sticks. It would work as a weapon… at close range. "Benson writes what sells," she said frostily to Jane.

"I thought writers write what they know," Jane said innocently.

Stephanie glared at him. "The tabloid stuff just pays the bills." She put the candle stick away. "Benson is working on some serious pieces in his spare time. He'll prove his worth someday."

Jane became instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot that he's your boyfriend. Forgive me for overstepping."

"He's not my boyfriend," Stephanie said. She would have continued but footsteps sounded upstairs. She stopped foraging among the boxes and froze. Jane stood up and she moved nearer to him, pausing momentarily to arm herself with the candlestick.

They heard the chair being pulled away from the door and then the door opened. The gunman peered down at them. This was the first time they had a good look at him and he was far from imposing – except for the gun. He was of average height and thinly built, in his mid to late twenties but with a countenance much younger. His clothing suggested someone more used to outdoors than in. He looked at them both and nodded. "Good. You're not dead," he said. "I was worried."

"What do you want with us?" Stephanie demanded.

The gunman looked pointedly at Jane. "Your boss knows," he told her. "Sorry I had to hit you," he said to Jane.

"That's alright," Jane shrugged it off and smiled. "You must have knocked your name out of my head… I don't remember it…"

The gunman smiled back. "Gary," he said. He lit up his flashlight and directed the beam at Jane's head. "You're going to have to clean that up before you go on TV," he told him.

"Maybe he should go to a hospital for that," said Stephanie.

"I don't think so," said Gary. "He looks okay to me. Just a little… messed up."

"You never know, he could drop dead from an aneurism any second…" Stephanie insisted. "You would be charged with murder, do you know that? Murder!"

Gary became agitated at that and pointed his gun at them. Stephanie ducked behind Jane. "No! No aneurism. Don't you drop dead, you hear me? I need you alive!" Gary leaned to one side to get a better look at Stephanie and aimed his gun at her. "You I don't need. You weren't even supposed to be here. I don't need you…"

"I need her, Gary," Jane said agreeably. "I can't fix myself up alone. She has to help me. How about some water and a first aid kit?"

Gary considered for a moment then lowered his gun. "Where do you keep that kind of thing?"

Stephanie answered from behind Jane, "Under the sink in the master bath."

"Okay," said Gary, affable again. "You want anything else?"

"How about something to eat?" suggested Jane. He stepped aside, trying to position himself next to rather than in front of Stephanie to look less defensive but she was having none of it.

Gary said, "I checked the fridge already. There's nothing good in it. You should have gone shopping."

"I know," said Jane. "I've been a little preoccupied. Could you go to the store?" He took a step toward Gary and took on a conspiratorial tone. Motioning with his eyes back to Stephanie he said, "She's hypoglycemic and I do _NOT_ want to be locked in a room with her too long between meals if you know what I mean."

Stephanie took the hint and said, "I'm starting to get hungry," in a whiny tone.

Jane took another step toward Gary and said, "You gotta help me out here, man…"

Gary looked torn. "I dunno. If I'm gone when Steve gets here he's gonna be really mad. He's not gonna like that I've got two of you anyway.

"So why don't do us all a favor and let the lady go? It's me you want anyway, isn't it?" Jane suggested.

"She'll call the police," Gary said.

Jane smiled and said, "No she won't." He motioned for Stephanie to come and stand next to him.

Stephanie stepped forward. "I won't. I promise," she said.

Gary looked at her doubtfully. "You'd leave your boyfriend here with a guy with a gun and not call the police?"

Not sure how to reply to that, Stephanie just managed, "I… no."

"What kind of girlfriend would do something like that?" Gary demanded, raising his gun again.

Jane put a protective arm around her as Stephanie said, "I didn't mean it, I wouldn't…"

"So you would call the police?" Gary demanded. He took one step down. Stephanie tried to inch behind Jane but he held her in place as Gary continued, getting angrier. "You just lied to me when you said you wouldn't?"

Jane maintained a calm, conversational tone. "She wouldn't call the police if you told her not to, Gary. You're in charge, right honey?" He said to Stephanie with a smile.

"Yes," she said.

Jane smiled even brighter at Gary. "See? We'll both do what you tell us to do. You're the man in charge here."

Gary began to defuse. "You're damned right I am. I'm in charge. And I'm not stupid."

"Of course you aren't," Jane assured him.

Gary brightened. He put down the flashlight and pulled something out of his pocket. "I took your phone," he said. "Got it right here." Gary showed off his trophy.

"I see that," said Jane. "That's what a smart man would do. And you've turned the lights on upstairs to make the house look normal."

After a moment's hesitation, Gary said, "Yeah. I did that too."

Jane released his grip on Stephanie hoping she would take his cue to act relaxed. She did. He continued speaking reasonably to Gary. "Now you're going to hurry to the store to get us some food so you can be back before Steve."

"Hey," said Gary. He held up Jane's phone. "I could just have a pizza delivered. What's your phone number because they always call back to make sure you're a real person."

"Pizza delivery wouldn't be good," Jane told him. "You don't want someone else coming here, do you?"

"No. Of course I don't. I'm gonna go to the store. What do you want to eat?"

"Chinese," Stephanie blurted out. "From Shanghai Sue's."

"That's all the way across town," objected Gary. "Plus, I don't like all that MSG…"

"But it's my favorite," Stephanie said. "They'll leave out the MSG if you ask them to."

Gary said, "How do you really know if they do? No Chinese." He thought for a moment. "I could pick up a pizza," he said excitedly. "There's a place right around the corner."

Jane spoke up. "Pizza isn't good for me. I'm lactose intolerant."

"Yeah," said Stephanie. "I do not want to be locked down here with no bathroom with him if his stomach starts to act up."

"Do you like burgers?" Gary asked. "There's a burger place just up the…"

Jane snapped his fingers and said, "Chicken!"

Gary narrowed his eyes at him. "What did you call me?"

"Rotisserie chicken! From the gourmet grocer's on Pinehurst Road. It's not too far…"

"I know where that is," Gary said.

"And salad with vinaigrette dressing," Stephanie added.

Jane nodded at her. "With a side of broccoli… two. Two sides of broccoli." He turned to Gary. "Are you getting this all down?"

Gary concentrated. "I think so…"

Jane repeated the order. "Rotisserie chicken, broccoli, salad."

"Honey mustard dressing," Gary mumbled.

"Vinaigrette," corrected Stephanie.

Gary glared at her. "I like honey mustard," he said.

"Honey mustard is great," said Stephanie. "And iced tea. With lemon. No sugar."

Gary backed up the stairs repeating the order under his breath while counting on his fingers. He made it out the door and was beginning to swing it closed when Jane called out.

"And Gummi Bears."

Gary grinned. "I like Gummi Bears."

Jane smiled at him, "Me too," he said.

"Bye," said Gary.

"Bye," echoed Jane and Stephanie.

"I'm locking the door and shoving a chair against it so you can't get out," said Gary through the door.

"Okay," said Jane.

"If Steve gets here first, tell him I'll bring enough chicken for him too."

"Okay," said Jane.

* * * *


	5. Chapter 5

"He's not quite right, is he?" Stephanie observed Gary as soon as the door was closed.

"No," said Jane. "I can't wait to meet Steve…"

"I already have," Stephanie said. "I know who they are now. Steve and Gary Suarez. I met Steve, I'd only heard about Gary."

Jane climbed the stairs to get a better look at the door. "So tell me about him," he said.

"A real nut job," said Stephanie.

The hinges were on the other side of the door. "Runs in the family, does it?" The doorknob didn't have a lock so there had to be a slide bolt on the other side. Jane went down a step and got down on his knees to look under the gap between the door and the floor.

"Runs in the town. I interviewed him up in Berrywood a few months ago…" She stopped when Jane suddenly scrambled back down the stairs at the sound of footsteps.

The chair was pulled back and the door opened again. Gary's smiling face appeared. He was carrying a first aid kit and a couple of towels. "You thought I forgot, didn't you?" he beamed.

"I knew you wouldn't," said Jane. "Thanks." He approached the stairs.

"Not too close," Gary warned, showing that he had the gun still in one hand. "I'll leave it all here for you." He put the towels and the first aid kit on the landing. "Bye again," he said cheerfully and closed the door.

"Bye," said Jane and Stephanie.

"Interviewed him?" asked Jane. He retrieved the kit and the towels.

Stephanie nodded. "For Benson. He was doing a piece about aliens."

"If it was for the 'Truthfinder' I'm guessing you mean E.T. aliens, not illegal aliens."

Stephanie pulled a couple of folding chairs and a folding table out of a corner and set them up. "Let me take a look at that," she told Jane.

He looked at her distrustingly, but gave her the kit and towels and sat down. "Little green men. Right up Bowman's alley."

"Little grey men," Stephanie said as she took a towel to the sink in the corner and dampened it. "Didn't you watch the X-Files?" She approached Jane, and snapped on a pair of gloved from the first aid kit. "Now sit still and do everything the nice doctor tells you," she grinned.

Jane stared straight forward, not appreciating the humor. "So Suarez wasn't happy with the way the story came out?"

"He loved it." Stephanie put one hand on Jane's head to steady it for a better look. "Nice hair," she said ruffling through it to find the source of the blood. "And a lot of it. You don't have to worry about going bald." She frowned at the bad lighting. "Turn," she said. "I need more light."

Jane scooted the chair a bit to the left.

"More," said Stephanie.

He scooted again.

"More," she said.

He looked at her, annoyed.

"Your head is here, the light is there," she said pointing to the florescent fixture. "I can't see. Do you want me to do this or not?"

"Not," Jane said.

"Turn," Stephanie insisted. Jane turned again. Finally satisfied, Stephanie parted Patrick's hair to get a better look at his injury. "It was tough to put together, all of Acosta's "evidence" – photos and statistics and graphs to sort through, but it came out alright. Acosta finally felt someone would believe him. Then the story was cancelled. A-hah!" She found the cut, about an inch long right above his left ear.

"Ow!" he said.

"It's not too bad," she said. She used a corner of the damp towel to clear away some of the blood.

"It wasn't until you started poking at it."

"Be still."

Jane tried to distract himself. "Why was the story cancelled?"

"Old man Hurst didn't want it. The paper had run three UFO nut job pieces in the past two months."

"Already met their quota." Jane surmised. He watched as Stephanie picked some gauze out of the first aid kit and a bottle of alcohol. Patrick grabbed her arm in alarm. "What are you going to do with that?"

"I have to clean it up," she said. She picked his hand off her wrist and opened the bottle of alcohol and poured some onto the gauze. "You're married," she observed.

"Yes," he said.

"I knew you weren't gay…" Stephanie again parted the hair around Patrick's wound.

"You did?" he said skeptically. He knew things about other people. Other people didn't know things about him.

"Yeah," she said. "If we'd spent another minute on that couch my virtue might have been compromised." Stephanie smiled at his reaction. "You're blushing," she said. "Another involuntary response."

"Can we get on with this?" Patrick said, annoyed.

"Slow down, big guy," Stephanie grinned. "No need to rush." She used one hand to pull back his hair and hold his head still and the other to try and swab the wound but Patrick kept inching away from her. "What are you – Nine?" she asked. "Be still!" Patrick scrunched his eyes closed and braced himself. Stephanie let out a little laugh. "That's a nice look for a grown man…"

"Just do it," he said

"Is that what you say to your wife?" Stephanie teased. She dabbed the gauze lightly onto his wound. Patrick hissed and stomped one foot. Stephanie removed the gauze and had a second look. "You've got quite a knot but it's more of a bump than a cut. It won't need stitches." She released her grip to put the cap back on the bottle of alcohol. Patrick started to get up. "Stay!" she commanded. "You need some antibiotic."

Jane was determined to change the subject. "So that's what Suarez wants. What every UFO nut wants. He wants to be vindicated. Hurst killed his big story so Suarez killed Hurst."

Stephanie finished her nursing and fluffed Patrick's hair to cover the wound. "Good as new," she said, standing back to admire her work. She frowned and reached out for one more touch up but Patrick stood and moved away to pace as he continued his summation.

"He drops our friend Gary off here to keep an eye on Bowman while he drives into the city to kill Hurtz. Gary is supposed to take Bowman hostage and when Steve gets back he alerts the media and puts on TV to read the story on the news. It makes perfect sense."

"But you're not Bowman," Stephanie pointed out.

"Steve's never met him, has he?" Jane seemed suddenly very sure of himself.

"No," Stephanie said.

Jane stopped in front of Stephanie and looked directly at her. "Does he know that you're the real writer?"

"I'm not…" she began.

Jane smiled at her. "When that computer upstairs is booted up the only thing anyone is going to find on it is porn and fantasy football statistics. Benson Bowman isn't a hack. He's a _front_. For you."


	6. Chapter 6

Stephanie knew there was no point in denying it but she had to try. "What makes you think…?"

Jane picked up her right hand, and showed it to her. "I saw your class ring – Sigma Tau Delta, the International English Honor Society."

Stephanie snatched her hand back. "That doesn't mean I'm a writer."

"You did Bowman's interviews."

"That's what a personal assistant does."

Jane continued, "You didn't mind at all when I insulted Bowman's intelligence and lifestyle but you didn't like it when I criticized his writing. Because it's _your_ writing." Jane crossed his arms and smiled.

His self satisfied smirk was too much for her and Stephanie turned away. All these years and this jerk figures it out in a little over an hour?

"But why even bother with a front?" Jane asked. "The "Old Boy Network" is a cliché. There are plenty of woman writers out there now."

Stephanie turned back around. "I don't want my name associated with the kind of crap printed in 'The Truthfinder'. It was supposed to just pay the bills until I publish something I can be proud of. Trust me - becoming the star reporter for a tabloid wasn't part of my career plan." She sat on one of the folding chairs and began to put away the first aid supplies.

Jane took the other chair and sat opposite her. "I'd discourage you away from nursing as well. You don't have a gentle touch," He said. No response. That meant he'd annoyed her. Jane smiled again and leaned forward on the table. "So who is the man currently known as Benson Bowman really?"

"Why should I tell you?" she asked.

"So I can be more convincing when Gary the Gunman and Steve get here," Jane reminded her.

Stephanie snapped the lid back on to the first aid kit. "Benson is his real name. He's not a much of a writer but he _is_ William Hurst's nephew. I dated him to get a connection to get my foot in the door with a publisher." She noticed Jane's grimace at calling Hurst a publisher. "Any publisher," she said defensively. "That's how you break in to writing. Anyway, Benson and I met while we both worked at a restaurant. I had already graduated." She smiled ruefully. "You see my career was off to a brilliant start. Benson was barely squeaking by on his "interdisciplinary studies" degree. Benson is a sweet guy. But he isn't the brightest in his family. His parents are both doctors, his sister is an attorney, his brother designs million dollar buildings. He was under a lot of pressure. As a favor, I wrote an essay for Benson for his journalism class. It was a good one – made it into the college paper. His family jumped all over it because it was the first thing he had ever done well. He got a lot of attention, especially from his uncle William. He printed it in the Truthfinder, and it got a lot of letters. He offered Benson a job. Benson had to keep face…"

"So you've been ghostwriting for him for how long?"

Stephanie hesitated to think. "Nine years," she said. She was horrified it had been that long.

Jane read that in her face. "That's a long time to spend in the shadows," he said.

"I guess I just kind of got used to it," she replied softly. "I have serious projects that I'm working on, but the tabloid stuff keeps me pretty busy. I'm supporting two people with it."

"And two homes. You don't live here. You and Benson are no longer romantically involved."

"That didn't last long," Stephanie agreed. "We work better together as a business arrangement."

"What does Benson actually contribute?"

"He's the connection. He's the face. I do the most of the research and the writing; he goes into the office a couple of times a week and plays the part."

Jane nodded. "It's Benson then that goes to the parties and comes up with the gossip column stuff…"

"Yeah," said Stephanie. "And I do all the serious work."

"Serious," laughed Jane. "You call UFO's, Bigfoot, that kind of nonsense serious?"

"Compared to celebrity gossip, yes." Stephanie said, righteously meeting his eyes. "You know, you're starting to look familiar…"

Jane turned his chair slightly. "I get that all of the time."

"What did you say your name was?" she asked.

Jane hesitated as long as he felt he could get away with it. "Patrick Jane," he finally answered.

"I remember," Stephanie said, growing solemn. "I'm sorry about what happened."

"Thanks," he said simply.

"We were supposed to do a story about you…"

Patrick stared silently across the room, stone-faced.

"I even started the research." She waited for a reaction but got none. "But the day your story broke was also the day the Shuttle Columbia crashed - we were redirected to write about the conspiracy theory angle…Your tragedy got lost in a bigger one," she said quietly.

Patrick didn't reply. He didn't even blink.

"Thank goodness for that," Stephanie said.

"There was no goodness involved," Patrick said.

The two of them sat in a cold silence. It was finally broken by the sound of a car in the driveway.

* * * *


	7. Chapter 7

A car door slammed outside. It was followed by quick footsteps up the front walk. Stephanie checked her watch. "It's only been half an hour. He can't be back from the store yet."

"Looks like we're about to meet Steve," Jane said. He stood and straightened his clothes. "Just follow my lead."

They heard the front door open. "He knows me," Stephanie protested. "I interviewed him, remember?"

"I'm in charge," Jane told her. "I'm your boss…"

Stephanie glared at him.

"That's what he thinks, right? Let me handle this, okay?"

Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. The chair was pulled away from the door and an instant later Gary burst through the door and came right down the steps, clearly agitated. He waved his gun in Jane and Stephanie's general direction but seemed too upset to take time to actually aim it. "What did you do? What did you DO??"

Jane put on his best soothing persona. "Be calm, Gary. We did nothing. We were locked down here. What's wrong?"

Gary began pacing wildly around the room. Stephanie stood just behind Jane and the two of them rotated with Gary, trying to remain facing him.

"Who got Steve?" Jane asked.

"The police!" wailed Gary. "It's on the radio!" He stopped moving and pointed his gun a bit more steadily. The fact that he was no longer between his hostages and the stairs went unnoticed by Gary, but not his hostages. "You called them, I know you did! You called them and now they got Steve. They shot him."

Staring down the barrel of the gun, Jane was afraid to make a move for the stairs. He tried to placate Gary. "I didn't call the police. I don't have a phone, you took my phone remember?"

Gary shook his head and looked around the basement. "There's another phone down here somewhere…"

Jane steered Stephanie one step closer to the stairs by gesturing around the room. "There is no other phone down here. Look." He pointed to the walls and ceiling and moved another step. "See… no wires no phone."

Gary followed where Jane pointed but he didn't want an explanation. "They shot Steve!" He shouted. His face was reddening and he was beginning to shake. "They shot him and they killed him and now I'm gonna kill you."

Stephanie shrank behind Jane, clutching his jacket and closed her eyes. Let him handle it? This was going very well.

"Shot doesn't mean dead, Gary," Jane told him. "Did the radio say he was shot or dead?"

Gary started to cry. "They killed my brother!"

"Lots of people get shot and don't die, Gary," Jane said reasonably. "Steve might not die…"

Stephanie summoned all of her courage and moved to Jane's side. "The aliens will help him," she said.

That caught Gary off guard. "What?" he asked, confused.

_Don't screw this up, don't screw this up,_ thought Jane. _Just shut up and get back behind me._

Stephanie's voice became stronger. She had conducted the interview, she wrote the story – she knew the situation. "The aliens will help Steve, Gary. They won't let him die," she said confidently.

To Jane's surprise her tactic seemed to work. Gary grasped at the hope Stephanie offered. "Do you really believe that?" Gary asked her.

"Yes," said Stephanie. She took a step toward Gary. Jane fought an impulse to hold her back. Stephanie said to Gary, "They came all this way to visit him because he's special. They aren't going to let Steve die."

Gary shook his head. "They let Mr. Hurst die…"

"Mr. Hurst didn't believe in them. He didn't think the aliens were real; he wouldn't let me – us go ahead with Steve's story."

"He wasn't a good man," agreed Gary. "The aliens didn't like him."

Jane joined in. "No. They didn't like him. But they like Steve."

Gary lowered his gun slightly. "And me," he said. "The aliens like me because I believe. Do you believe, Mr. Bowman?"

"Yes," Jane said with great sincerity.

Gary looked thoughtful. "Then the aliens like you too." Without another word, Gary raised the gun and shot Stephanie in the chest.


	8. Conclusion

Stephanie dropped to the floor and Jane rushed to her side, shouting, "Why did you do that?" to Gary.

Very calm now, Gary said, "The aliens like you. You like her. They aliens will help her. They won't let her die."

She felt cold and hot at the same time. Voices came at her as if through glass and her vision was clouded with a gauzy haze_. Is this what dying is like?_ Stephanie wondered.

Horrified, Jane knelt next to Stephanie. She was having trouble breathing and blood was pouring from a wound in the center of her chest. He put his hands over it to try and slow the blood flow but it was too fast. "Bring me the first aid kit," he commanded Gary.

Stephanie gave him a faint smile. "There's nothing in there that will help me…" she coughed.

"Don't try to talk," Jane told her. He looked back at Gary. "Move," he yelled at him.

Gary had lowered the gun to his side but stayed in place. "What's the matter? You said you believed the aliens would help her. Don't you believe?"

Patrick stared at Gary but the basement dissolved around him and he was suddenly back in his home 5 years ago having just opened the door to his bedroom. All he could see was the bloody smiley face illuminated by the toppled lamp. Paralyzed with terror, Patrick whispered, "Oh God… Oh Jesus, please help…" But no help came.

"Why are you upset?" Gary demanded.

Patrick was pulled back to the present. Still covering her wound with his hands, he leaned over Stephanie. "You hang on how, do you hear me?" he told her fiercely.

"Shot doesn't mean dead," she whispered.

"No, it doesn't," he said.

Standing over them, Gary said, "The aliens will help her. You just have to believe."

Stephanie's eyes focused on Patrick's. "Do you believe?" she asked him.

Patrick met her gaze. He forced himself to say, "Yes."

Stephanie stared right through him and whispered, "Liar." She closed her eyes.

"You _are_ a liar," accused Gary angrily.

Patrick was still for a moment while he fought back fury and tears.

Gary aimed his gun at Jane's back. "You're a liar! You didn't believe and she's dead and Steve's dead and now you're going to be dead and then I'll be dead too!"

With ultra-calm composure, Jane said, "Then who will tell the story?" He released pressure on Stephanie's wound and straightened. "That's what Steve wanted. He wanted his story told and I'm the only one who can tell it."

"It doesn't matter," said Gary. "Steve's dead."

Jane stood up, bloody hands at his sides. He faced Gary and said, "It does matter. A person's story lives on after their dead. As long as there's someone alive to tell it. Let me tell Steve's story."

Gary began to cry again. "No one will believe."

"I'll make them believe," Jane said, taking a step toward Gary.

Gary startled when Jane's phone began to ring from Gary's pocket.

"Give me my phone," Jane held out his hand.

"No," said Gary, backing away.

Jane followed him. "Give me my phone," he said firmly. Gary began to shake. Jane calmly walked up to him. "It's over, done. Give me the gun and give me my phone."

Gary took the still ringing phone out of his pocket and handed it to Jane, the pointed the gun at his own head. Jane snatched the gun from Gary's hand with no resistance. "No one else is going to die today," Jane said. He looked at the display on his phone and felt a rush of relief. It was Lisbon. He flipped open the phone and said, "We're going to need an ambulance here."

* * * *

A day later, Stephanie lay propped up in a hospital bed in a room with several vases of flowers surrounding her. At her side was Benson Bowman. The two of them had just finished giving their statements to Theresa Lisbon and Kimball Cho when a huge bouquet of flowers and balloons tried to fit through the door. The four of them watched incredulously as the arrangement twisted and dipped and finally managed to clear the doorway. In the middle of it all was a radiant Patrick Jane.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said upon seeing Lisbon and Cho.

"We're just finishing up here," Lisbon said, ducking out of the way as the flowers approached.

"These are for you," Patrick told Stephanie.

"No kidding," she said. Her voice was soft but strong. "Thanks… but I don't know where you'll put them…"

Jane searched momentarily for an appropriate spot then set the arrangement on the end of Stephanie's bed. Lisbon rolled her eyes and picked up the arrangement to move it to a more stable surface as Jane maintained a smile and decorous distance from Stephanie. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I was hit by a truck," she said.

"She was very lucky," Benson said. "A little to the left or the right and the bullet could have hit her spine or her lung."

Stephanie said, "Patrick, this is Benson Bowman."

Patrick stepped up to shake hands with Benson. "I'm very sorry about your uncle," he told him.

"Thank you," said Benson. "And thank you for saving my friend."

"You're welcomes," said Patrick. "She's got a quite a story to tell. This one in her own name."

* * * *


End file.
